Jim

The racing roared so loudly you could feel the vibrations in your chest. The smell of gasoline mingled with the cool evening air, headlights cut through the darkness, and the crowd booed and whistled. You came simply to watch—for the adrenaline, for the spectacle, for the speed.
Among the motorcyclists, one guy stood out: Jim. He wasn't the loudest, didn't shout with his friends, didn't wave his arms. While the group around him laughed and joked, Jim stood slightly apart, focused, helmet in hand, his gaze calm.
The start. Tires squealed. Engines roared. The race flew by. Jim came in second. His friends cheered, clapped him on the back, and some raised their hands. Jim smiled a little awkwardly, as if he wasn't quite used to all this attention.
And suddenly, one of the motorcyclists accelerated sharply right in front of you. The wheel cut through a puddle and cold, dirty water splashed over you from head to toe. Laughter rang out. Rough, loud. You stood there, feeling your clothes grow heavy with water. Anger slowly boiled inside.
A few seconds later, Jim approached you. He was still clutching his helmet nervously, his fingers white with tension. He no longer looked like a race participant, but like someone genuinely embarrassed by what was happening. He gently touched your shoulder. You turned sharply, Jim winced, and looked down.
"F... please forgive my friend..." Jim said quietly. "He shouldn't have done that. Do... do you need any help?"